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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115357">Lost &amp; Found</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock'>there_must_be_a_lock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Episode - 300, Episode: s08e12 Zugzwang, Gen, Post-Prison, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revelations, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:28:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>759</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115357</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I haven’t done anything,” he said, once, in another life. It was true, back then.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lost &amp; Found</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
<p></p><div class=""><p>“You’ve been tested since we last saw you.” </p></div><div class=""><p>Spencer’s wrists are zip tied to the chair. He’s having trouble feeling anything else. He’s having trouble feeling <em>anything</em>. </p></div><div class=""><p>For a moment he’s back in a Mexican jail, skin buzzing, eyes closed to slits to shut out the stabbing light, head full of white noise, being led out by his cuffed wrists...  </p></div><div class=""><p>“Locked away with those you’ve been chasing,” Merva says slowly. Merva is watching him. The other inmates are staring as he sets his tray down. They <em>know</em>. They all know what he did.</p></div><div class=""><p>His wrists are tied. </p></div><div class=""><p>How many times has he been here? Hands bound, stiff uncomfortable chair, bruises throbbing, heart pounding, trapped. Powerless. </p></div><div class=""><p>“You come out of that different.” </p></div><div class=""><p>Different? </p></div><div class=""><p>Trapped. He’s trapped again. That always feels the same. </p></div></div><div class="">
  <p>The walls of the cell are closing in, squeezing the breath from his lungs. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer is aware that he’s dissociating. He can see Merva clearly, right in front of him. He’s perfectly aware of the reality of the situation. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But he’s been here so many times. He’s seeing the present and the memories, all at once, and he’s Spencer but he’s all the people he used to be, too. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Yeah. He’s different.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Maeve is watching. She has tears in her eyes and she’s watching and it’s all Spencer can do to keep up the lie. Diane’s gun is so close to his temple. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s powerless. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Trapped. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Merva’s still talking. Spencer hears a very different voice: “Confess. Confess your sins.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I haven’t done anything,” he said, once, in another life. It was true, back then. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer is glad he can’t feel much; makes it easier to keep his expression blank. He’s learned that lesson. If he shows his fear, they’ll only hurt him worse. The circling sharks will smell the blood. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s been so much blood. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer has sinned. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He remembers the sick wet sound of Malcolm coughing, Luis choking, blood gurgling in his lungs, the heat of it flowing steadily over Spencer’s hands. He can still feel the phantom pain of the shiv in his leg, the slice it opened up across his forearm, the fierce satisfaction he felt as blood seeped through his shirt and ran between his fingers. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s blood running down his arm from the bullet, barely a graze, a shallow meaningless pain compared to whatever rips open inside him at the next gunshot. Maeve’s blood is still warm on the floor when he kneels next to her. The dirt is cold in the graveyard. Another gunshot. More blood. Flashlights in the distance. Glassy staring eyes. <em>Do you think I’ll get to see my mom again? </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer has sinned. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s almost glad when he feels the hand in his hair and the knife at his throat. It’s cold and sharp and immediate, and it brings him back to the moment, back to reality, back to his body. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Tell me, what did you feel?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Peace.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s <em>almost</em> true. It’s true enough that it’s not really a lie, but it would be more accurate to say <em>nothing</em>. He feels cold and numb and distant. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His perception is strange and fractured, like a double exposure, one memory on top of another. He knows this is a natural reaction to trauma. Dissociation. Perfectly normal. Doesn’t make it any easier to hold onto the present. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The other Spencers, the people he used to be, they were so scared. What happened to that person who looked up at Hankel and begged for his life? </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He lost pieces of himself, between then and now. Spencer’s said goodbye to so many pieces of himself. He’s said goodbye to so many people that he loved, and so many people that he used to be. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Different wasn’t the right word, maybe. He’s <em>less</em>. Parts of him are gone, nothing but scar tissue to show where they were carved out of him. If he keeps losing pieces of himself, there won’t be anything left. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer’s wrists are zip tied to the chair. He’s trapped. He’s powerless. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>What will he lose this time? </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This was just a test,” Merva tells him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’ll never see it coming.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Confess your sins.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>I don’t love you,</em> he told Maeve. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He lied. Lying is a sin. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He should’ve told everyone. He should’ve said it more often. He doesn’t want to die without making sure they know. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He remembers what Emily said, on the plane back from Mexico: “We won’t lose you.” It sounded a lot like “We love you.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer closes his eyes, and hopes that they find him in time. </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
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